Seven faces in the rock
Six faces turned to the Teblor
One remains Unfound
Mother to the tribe of ghosts
the Teblor children we were told
to turn away
Mother’s Prayer of Giving
KARSA ORLONG WAS NO STRANGER TO STONE. RAW COPPER GOUGED from outcroppings, tin and their mating that was bronze, such materials had their place. But wood and stone were the words of the hands, the sacred shaping of will.
Parallel flakes, long and thin, translucent slivers punched away from the blade, leaving ripples reaching across, from edge to wavy spine. Smaller flakes removed from the twin edges, first one side, then flipping the blade over between blows, back and forth, all the way up the length.
To fight with such a weapon would demand changes to the style with which Karsa was most familiar. Wood flexed, slid with ease over shield rims, skipped effortlessly along out-thrust sword-blades. This flint sword’s serrated edges would behave differently, and he would have to adjust, especially given its massive weight and length.
The handle proved the most challenging. Flint did not welcome roundness, and the less angular the handle became, the less stable the striking platforms. For the pommel he worked the stone into a step-fractured, oversized diamond shape. The nearly right-angled step-fractures would normally be viewed as dangerous flaws, inviting a focus for shattering energies, but the gods had promised to make the weapon unbreakable, so Karsa dismissed his instinctive worry. He would wait until he found suitable materials for a cross-hilt.
He had no idea how much time passed during his making of the sword. All other considerations vanished for him-he felt no hunger, no thirst, and did not notice as the walls of the cavern grew slick with condensation, as the temperature ever rose, until both he and the stone were sheathed in sweat. He was also unmindful of the fire in the boulder-lined hearth that burned ceaselessly, unfuelled, the flames flickering with strange colours.
The sword commanded all. The feel of his companion ghosts resonated from the blade into his fingertips, then along every bone and muscle in his body. Bairoth Gild, whose cutting irony seemed to have somehow infused the weapon, as had Delum Thord’s fierce loyalty-these were unexpected gifts, a mysterious contortion of themes, of aspects, that imbued a personality to the sword.
Among the legends there were songs celebrating cherished weapons and the Teblor heroes who wielded them. Karsa had always held that the notion of weapons possessing wills of their own was little more than a poet’s conceit. And those heroes who had betrayed their blades and so suffered tragic ends, well, in each tale, Karsa had no difficulty in citing other, more obvious flaws in their actions, sufficient to explain the hero’s demise.
The Teblor never passed down weapons to heirs-all possessions accompanied the one who had died, for what worth a ghost bereft of all it had acquired in its mortal life?
The flint sword that found shape in Karsa’s hands was therefore unlike anything he had known-or heard of-before. It rested on the ground before him, strangely naked despite the leather he had wrapped around the grip. No hilt, no scabbard. Massive and brutal, yet beautiful in its symmetry, despite the streaks of blood left by his lacerated hands.
He became aware of the searing heat in the cavern, and slowly looked up.
The seven gods stood facing him in a flattened crescent, the hearth’s flames flickering across their battered, broken bodies. They held weapons to match the one now lying before him, though scaled down to suit their squat forms.
‘You have come in truth,’ Karsa observed.
The one he knew as Urugal replied, ‘We have. We are now free of the Ritual’s bindings. The chains, Karsa Orlong, are broken.’
Another spoke in a low, rasping voice. ‘The Warren of Tellann has found your sword, Karsa Orlong.’ The god’s neck was mangled, broken, the head fallen onto a shoulder and barely held in place by muscle and tendons. ‘It shall never shatter.’
Karsa grunted. ‘There are broken weapons in the caverns beyond.’
‘Elder sorcery,’ Urugal answered. ‘Inimical warrens. Our people have fought many wars.’
‘You T’lan Imass have indeed,’ the Teblor warrior said. ‘I walked upon stairs made of your kin. I have seen your kind, fallen in such numbers as to defy comprehension.’ He scanned the seven creatures standing before him. ‘What battle took you?’
Urugal shrugged. ‘It is of no significance, Karsa Orlong. A struggle of long ago, an enemy now dust, a failure best forgotten. We have known wars beyond counting, and what have they achieved? The Jaghut were doomed to extinction-we but hastened the inevitable. Other enemies announced themselves and stood in our path. We were indifferent to their causes, none of which was sufficient to turn us aside. And so we slaughtered them. Again and again. Wars without meaning, wars that changed virtually nothing. To live is to suffer. To exist-even as we do-is to resist.’
‘This is all that was learned, Karsa Orlong,’ said the T’lan Imass woman known as Siballe. ‘In its totality. Stone, sea, forest, city-and every creature that ever lived-all share the same struggle. Being resists unbeing. Order wars against the chaos of dissolution, of disorder. Karsa Orlong, this is the only worthy truth, the greatest of all truths. What do the gods themselves worship, but perfection? The unattainable victory over nature, over nature’s uncertainty. There are many words for this struggle. Order against chaos, structure against dissolution, light against dark, life against death. But they all mean the same thing.’
The broken-necked T’lan Imass spoke in a whisper, his words a droning chant. ‘The ranag has fallen lame. Is distanced from the herd. Yet walks on in its wake. Seeking the herd’s protection. Time will heal. Or weaken. Two possibilities. But the lame ranag knows naught but stubborn hope. For that is its nature. The ay have seen it and now close. The prey is still strong. But alone. The ay know weakness. Like a scent on the cold wind. They run with the stumbling ranag. And drive it away from the herd. Still, it is stubborn hope. It makes its stand. Head lowered, horns ready to crush ribs, send the enemy flying. But the ay are clever. Circle and attack, then spring away. Again and again. Hunger wars with stubborn hope. Until the ranag is exhausted. Bleeding. Staggering. Then the ay all attack at once. Nape of neck. Legs. Throat. Until the ranag is dragged down. And stubborn hope gives way, Karsa Orlong. It gives way, as it always must, to mute inevitability.’
The Teblor bared his teeth. ‘Yet your new master would harbour that lame beast. Would offer it a haven.’
‘You cross the bridge before we have built it, Karsa Orlong,’ Urugal said. ‘It seems Bairoth Gild taught you how to think, before he himself failed and so died. You are indeed worthy of the name Warleader.’
‘Perfection is an illusion,’ Siballe said. ‘Thus, mortal and immortal alike are striving for what cannot be achieved. Our new master seeks to alter the paradigm, Karsa Orlong. A third force, to change for ever the eternal war between order and dissolution.’
‘A master demanding the worship of imperfection,’ the Teblor growled.
Siballe’s head creaked in a nod. ‘Yes.’
Karsa realized he was thirsty and walked over to his pack, retrieving a waterskin. He drank deep, then returned to his sword. He closed both hands about the grip and lifted it before him, studying its rippled length.
‘An extraordinary creation,’ Urugal said. ‘If Imass weapons could have a god…’
Karsa smiled at the T’lan Imass he had once knelt before, in a distant glade, in a time of youth-when the world he saw was both simple and… perfect. ‘You are not gods.’
‘We are,’ Urugal replied. ‘To be a god is to possess worshippers.’
‘To guide them,’ Siballe added.
‘You are wrong, both of you,’ Karsa said. ‘To be a god is to know the burden of believers. Did you protect? You did not. Did you offer comfort, solace? Were you possessed of compassion? Even pity? To the Teblor, T’lan Imass, you were slavemasters, eager and hungry, making harsh demands, and expecting cruel sacrifices-all to feed your own desires. You were the Teblor’s unseen chains.’ His eyes settled on Siballe. ‘And you, woman, Siballe the Unfound, you were the taker of children.’
‘Imperfect children, Karsa Orlong, who would otherwise have died. And they do not regret my gifts.’
‘No, I would imagine not. The regret remains with the mothers and fathers who surrendered them. No matter how brief a child’s life, the love of the parents is a power that should not be denied. And know this, Siballe, it is immune to imperfection.’ His voice was harsh to his own ears, grating out from a constricted throat. ‘Worship imperfection, you said. A metaphor you made real by demanding that those children be sacrificed. Yet you were-and remain-unmindful of the most crucial gift that comes from worship. You have no understanding of what it is. But even that is not your worst crime. No. You then gave us your own burdens.’ He shifted his gaze. ‘Tell me, Urugal, what have the Teblor done to deserve that?’
‘Your own people have forgotten-’
‘Tell me.’
Urugal shrugged. ‘You failed.’
Karsa stared at the battered god, unable to speak. The sword trembled in his hands. He had held it up for all this time, and now, finally, its weight threatened to drag his arms down. He fixed his eyes on the weapon, then slowly lowered the tip to rest on the stone floor.
‘We too failed, once, long ago,’ Siballe said. ‘Such things cannot be undone. Thus, you may surrender to it, and so suffer beneath its eternal torment. Or you can choose to free yourself of the burden. Karsa Orlong, our answer to you is simple: to fail is to reveal a flaw. Face that revelation, do not turn your back on it, do not make empty vows to never repeat your mistakes. It is done. Celebrate it! That is our answer, and indeed is the answer shown us by the Crippled God.’
The tension drained from Karsa’s shoulders. He drew a deep breath, released it slowly. ‘Very well. To you, and to the Crippled God, I now give my answer.’
Rippled stone made no silent passage through the air. Instead, it roared, like pine needles exploding into flame. Up, over Karsa’s head, wheeling in a sliding circle that then swept down and across.
The edge taking Siballe between left shoulder and neck. Bones snapping as the massive blade ploughed through, diagonally, across the chest, severing the spine, down and through the ribcage, sweeping clear just above her right hip.
She had lifted her own sword to intercept at some point, and it had shattered, flinging shards and slivers into the air-Karsa had not even felt the impact.
He whipped the huge blade in a curving arc in his follow-through, lifting it to poise, suddenly motionless, over his head.
The ruined form that was Siballe collapsed in clattering pieces onto the stone floor. The T’lan Imass had been cut in half.
The remaining six had raised their own weapons, but none moved to attack.
Karsa snarled. ‘Come ahead, then.’
‘Will you now destroy the rest of us?’ Urugal asked.
‘Her army of foundlings will follow me,’ the Teblor growled, sneering down at Siballe. Then he glared up once more. ‘You will leave my people-leave the glade. You are done with us, T’lan Imass. I have delivered you here. I have freed you. If you ever appear before me again, I will destroy you. Walk the dreams of the tribal elders, and I will come hunting you. And I shall not relent. I, Karsa Orlong, of the Uryd, of the Teblor Thelomen Toblakai, so avow.’ He took a step closer, and the six T’lan Imass flinched. ‘You used us. You used me. And, for my reward, what did you just offer?’
‘We sought-’
‘You offered a new set of chains. Now, leave this place. You have all you desired. Get out.’
The six T’lan Imass walked towards the cave mouth. A momentary occluding of the sunlight spilling into the front cavern, then they were gone.
Karsa lowered his sword. He looked down at Siballe.
‘Unexpected,’ she said.
The warrior grunted. ‘I’d heard you T’lan Imass were hard to kill.’
‘Impossible, Karsa Orlong. We… persist. Will you leave me here?’
‘There is to be no oblivion for you?’
‘Once, long ago, a sea surrounded these hills. Such a sea would free me to the oblivion you speak of. You return me to a fate-and a punishment-that I have spent millennia seeking to escape. I suppose that is apt enough.’
‘What of your new master, this Crippled God?’
‘He has abandoned me. It would appear that there are acceptable levels of imperfection-and unacceptable levels of imperfection. I have lost my usefulness.’
‘Another god that understands nothing of what it is to be a god,’ Karsa rumbled, walking over to his pack.
‘What will you do now, Karsa Orlong?’
‘I go in search of a horse.’
‘Ah, a Jhag horse. Yes, they can be found to the southwest of here, on the odhan. Rare. You may be searching for a long time.’
The Teblor shrugged. He loosened the strings that closed the mouth of the pack and walked over to the shambles that was Siballe. He lifted the part of her containing the head and right shoulder and arm.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Do you need the rest?’
‘No. What-’
Karsa pushed her head, shoulder and arm into his pack, then drew the strings once more. He would need a harness and a scabbard for the sword, but that would have to wait. He shrugged into the pack’s straps, then straightened and leaned the sword over his right shoulder.
A final glance around.
The hearth still raged with a sorcerous fire, though it had begun flickering more rapidly now, as if using up the last of its unseen fuel. He thought about kicking gravel over it to douse it, then shrugged and turned to the cave mouth.
As he came to the entrance, two figures suddenly rose before him, blocking the light.
Karsa’s sword whipped across his path, the flat of the blade thundering against both figures, sending them flying off the ledge.
‘Get out of my way,’ the warrior growled, stepping out into the sunlight.
He spared neither intruder another glance as he set off along the trail, where it angled southwest.
Trull Sengar groaned, then opened his eyes. He lifted his head, wincing at the countless sharp pains pressing into his back. That flint sword had thrown him down a scree of stone chips… although it had been hapless Onrack who had taken the brunt of the blow. Even so, his chest ached, and he feared his ribs were bruised, if not cracked.
The T’lan Imass was awkwardly regaining its feet a dozen paces away.
Trull spat and said, ‘Had I known the door was barred, I would have knocked first. That was a damned Thelomen Toblakai.’
The Tiste Edur saw Onrack’s head snap round to stare back up at the cave.
‘What is it?’ Trull demanded. ‘He’s coming down to finish us?’
‘No,’ the T’lan Imass replied. ‘In that cave… the Warren of Tellann lingers…’
‘What of it?’
Onrack began climbing the rock slide toward the cavern’s mouth.
Hissing his frustration, Trull clambered upward and followed, slowly, pausing every few steps until he was able to find his breath once more.
When he entered the cave he gave a shout of alarm. Onrack was standing inside a fire, the rainbow-coloured flames engulfing him. And the T’lan Imass held, in its right hand, the shattered remains of another of its kind.
Trull stepped forward, then his feet skidded out from under him and he fell hard onto a bed of sharp flint chips. Pain thundered from his ribs, and it was some time before he could breathe once more. Cursing, he rolled onto his side-gingerly-then carefully climbed upright. The air was hot as a forge.
Then the cavern was suddenly dark-the strange fire had gone out.
A pair of hands closed on Trull’s shoulders.
‘The renegades have fled,’ said Onrack. ‘But they are close. Come.’
‘Right, lead on, friend.’
A moment before they emerged into the sunlight, sudden shock raced through Trull Sengar. A pair of hands.
Karsa skirted the valley side, making his way along what passed for a trail. Countless rockslides had buried it every ten paces or so, forcing him to scramble across uncertain, shifting gravel, raising clouds of dust in his wake.
On second consideration, he realized that one of the two strangers who had blocked his exit from the cave had been a T’lan Imass. Not surprising, since the entire valley, with all its quarries, mines and tombs, was a site holy to them… assuming anything could be holy to creatures that were undead. And the other-not human at all. But familiar none the less. Ah, like the ones on the ship. The grey-skinned ones I killed.
Perhaps he should retrace his route. His sword had yet to drink real blood, after all. Barring his own, of course.
Ahead, the trail cut sharply upward, out of the valley. Thoughts of having to repeat this dust-fouled, treacherous route decided him. He would save the blooding of his sword for more worthy enemies. He made his way upward.
It was clear the six T’lan Imass had not taken this route. Fortunate for them. He had lost his patience with their endless words, especially when the deeds they had done shouted louder, loud enough to overwhelm their pathetic justifications. He reached the crest and pulled himself onto level ground. The vista stretching to the southwest was as untamed as any place Karsa had yet to see in Seven Cities. No signs of civilization were apparent-no evidence at all that this land had ever been broken. Tall prairie grasses waved in the hot wind, cloaking low, rolling hills that continued on to the horizon. Clumps of low, bushy trees filled the basins, flickering dusty green and grey as the wind shook their leaves.
The Jhag Odhan. He knew, suddenly, that this land would capture his heart with its primal siren call. Its scale… matched his own, in ways he could not define. Thelomen Toblakai have known this place, have walked it before me. A truth, though he was unable to explain how he knew it to be so.
He lifted his sword. ‘Bairoth Delum-so I name you. Witness. The Jhag Odhan. So unlike our mountain fastnesses. To this wind I give your name-see how it races out to brush the grasses, to roll against the hill and through the trees. I give this land your name, Bairoth Delum.’
That warm wind sang against the sword’s rippled blade with moaning cadence.
A flash of movement in the grasses, a thousand paces distant. Wolves, fur the colour of honey, long-limbed, taller than any he had ever before seen. Karsa smiled.
He set forth.
The grasses reached to just beneath his chest, the ground underfoot hardpacked between the knotted roots. Small creatures rustled continually from his path, and he startled the occasional deer-a small breed, reaching no higher than his knees, that hissed like an arrow between the stalks as it fled.
One proved not quite fast enough to avoid his scything blade, and Karsa would eat well this night. Thus, his sword’s virgin thirst was born of necessity, not the rage of battle. He wondered if the ghosts had known displeasure at such an ignoble beginning. They had surrendered their ability to communicate with him upon entering the stone, though Karsa’s imagination had no difficulty in finding Bairoth’s sarcastic commentary, should he seek it. Delum’s measured wisdom was more difficult, yet valued all the more for that.
The sun swept its even arc across the cloudless sky as he marched on. Towards dusk he saw bhederin herds to the west, and, two thousand paces ahead, a herd of striped antelope crested a hilltop to watch him for a time, before wheeling as one and vanishing from sight.
The western horizon was a fiery conflagration when he reached the place where they had stood.
Where a figure awaited him.
The grasses had been flattened in a modest circle. A three-legged brazier squatted in its centre, filled with orange-glowing pieces of bhederin dung that cast forth no smoke. Seated behind it was a Jaghut. Bent and gaunt to the point of emaciation, wearing ragged skins and hides, long grey hair hanging in strands over a blotched, wrinkled brow, eyes the colour of the surrounding grass.
The Jaghut glanced up as Karsa approached, offering the Teblor something between a grimace and a smile, his yellowed tusks gleaming. ‘You have made a mess of that deer skin, Toblakai. I will take it none the less, in exchange for this cookfire.’
‘Agreed,’ Karsa replied, dropping the carcass beside the brazier.
‘Aramala contacted me, and so I have come to meet you. You have done her a noble service, Toblakai.’
Karsa set down his pack and squatted before the brazier. ‘I hold no loyalty to the T’lan Imass.’
The Jaghut reached across and collected the deer. A small knife flashed in his hand and he began cutting just above the animal’s small hoofs. ‘An expression of their gratitude, after she fought alongside them against the Tyrants. As did I, although I was fortunate enough to escape with little more than a broken spine. Tomorrow, I will lead you to one far less fortunate than either Aramala or myself.’
Karsa grunted. ‘I seek a Jhag horse, not an introduction to your friends.’
The ancient Jaghut cackled. ‘Blunt words. Thelomen Toblakai indeed. I had forgotten, and so lost my appreciation. The one I will take you to shall call out to the wild horses-and they will come.’
‘A singular skill.’
‘Aye, and hers alone, for it was, by and large, by her hand and her will that the horses came into being.’
‘A breeder, then.’
‘Of sorts,’ the Jaghut nodded amicably. He began peeling the hide from the deer. ‘The few of my fallen kin still alive will greatly appreciate this skin, despite the damage wrought by your ghastly stone sword. The aras deer are fleet, and clever. They never use the same trail-ha, they do not even make trails! And so one cannot lie in wait. Nor are snares of any use. And when pursued, where do they go? Why, into the bhederin herds, under the very beasts themselves. Clever, I said. Very clever.’
‘I am Karsa Orlong, of the Uryd-’
‘Yes, yes, I know. From distant Genabackis. Little different from my fallen kin, the Jhag. Ignorant of your great and noble history-’
‘Less ignorant than I once was.’
‘Good. I am named Cynnigig, and now you are even less ignorant.’
Karsa shrugged. ‘The name means nothing to me.’
‘Of course not, it’s mine. Was I infamous? No, though once I aspired to be. Well, for a moment or two. But then I changed my mind. You, Karsa Orlong, you are destined for infamy. Perhaps indeed you have already achieved it, back in your homeland.’
‘I think not. No doubt I am believed dead, and nothing of what I did is known to my family or my tribe.’
Cynnigig cut off a haunch and threw it on the flames. A cloud of smoke rose from the hissing, spitting fire. ‘So you might think, but I would hazard otherwise. Word travels, no matter what the barriers. The day you return, you will see.’
‘I care not for fame,’ Karsa said. ‘I did once…’
‘And then?’
‘I changed my mind.’
Cynnigig laughed once again, louder this time. ‘I have brought wine, my young friend. In yonder chest, yes, there.’
Karsa straightened and walked over. The chest was massive, iron-bounded and thick-planked, robust enough to challenge even Karsa, should he choose to lift it. ‘This should have wheels and a train of oxen,’ the Teblor muttered as he crouched before it. ‘How did you bring it with you?’
‘I didn’t. It brought me.’
Games with words. Scowling, Karsa lifted the lid.
A single carafe of crystal stood in its centre, flanked by a pair of chipped clay beakers. The wine’s deep red colour gleamed through the transparent crystal, bathing the otherwise empty interior of the chest with a warm, sunset hue. Karsa stared down into it for a moment, then grunted. ‘Aye, I can see that it would fit you, provided you curled up. You and the wine and the brazier-’
‘The brazier! That would be a hot journey!’
The Teblor’s scowl deepened. ‘Unlit, of course.’
‘Ah, yes, of course. Cease your gawking, then, and pour us some wine. I’m about to turn the meat here.’
Karsa reached down, then snatched his hand back. ‘It’s cold in there!’
‘I prefer my wine chilled, even the red. I prefer everything chilled, in fact.’
Grimacing, the Teblor picked up the carafe and the two beakers. ‘Then someone must have carried you here.’
‘Only if you believe all that I tell you. And all that you see, Karsa Orlong. A T’lan Imass army marched by here, not so long ago. Did they find me? No. Why? I was hidden in my chest, of course. Did they find the chest? No, because it was a rock. Did they note the rock? Perhaps. But then, it was only a rock. Now, I know what you’re thinking, and you would be precisely correct. The sorcery I speak of is not Omtose Phellack. But why would I seek to employ Omtose Phellack, when that is the very scent the T’lan Imass hunted? Oh no. Is there some cosmic law that Jaghut can only use Omtose Phellack? I’ve read a hundred thousand night skies and have yet to see it written there-oh, plenty of other laws, but nothing approaching that one, neither in detail nor intent. Thus saving us the bloody recourse of finding a Forkrul Assail to adjudicate, and believe me, such adjudication is invariably bloody. Rarely indeed is anyone satisfied. Rarer still that anyone is left alive. Is there justice in such a thing, I ask you? Oh yes, perhaps the purest justice of all. On any given day, the aggrieved and the aggriever could stand in each other’s clothes. Never a question of right and wrong, in truth, simply one of deciding who is least wrong. Do you grasp-’
‘What I grasp,’ Karsa cut in, ‘is the smell of burning meat.’
‘Ah, yes. Rare are my moments of discourse-’
‘I had no idea.’
‘-which cannot be said for this meat. Of course you wouldn’t, since we have just met. But I assure you, I have little opportunity to talk-’
‘There in your chest.’
Cynnigig grinned. ‘Precisely. You have the gist of it. Precisely. Thelomen Toblakai indeed.’
Karsa handed the Jaghut a beaker filled with wine. ‘Alas, my hand has warmed it some.’
‘I’ll suffer the degradation, thank you. Here, help yourself to the deer. Charcoal is good for you, did you know that? Cleanses the digestive tract, confounds the worms, turns your excrement black. Black as a forest bear’s. Recommended if you are being pursued, for it will fool most, barring those who have made a study of excrement, of course.’
‘And do such people exist?’
‘I have no idea. I rarely get out. What preening empires have risen only to then fall beyond the Jhag Odhan? Pomposity choking on dust, these are cycles unending among short-lived creatures. I do not grieve for my own ignorance. Why should I? Not knowing what I have missed means I do not miss what I do not know. How could I? Do you see? Aramala was ever questing for such pointless knowledge, and look where it got her. Same for Phyrlis, whom you will meet tomorrow. She can never see beyond the leaves in front of her face, though she ceaselessly strives to do so, as if the vast panorama offers something other than time’s insectile crawl. Empires, thrones, tyrants and liberators, a hundred thousand tomes filled with versions of the same questions, asked over and over again. Will answers deliver their promised solace? I think not. Here, cook some more, Karsa Orlong, and drink more wine-you see the carafe never empties. Clever, isn’t it? Now, where was I?’
‘You rarely get out.’
‘Indeed. What preening empires have risen only to then fall beyond the Jhag Odhan? Pomposity choking…’
Karsa’s eyes narrowed on the Jhag Odhan, then he reached for the wine.
A lone tree stood on ground that was the summit of a hill that in turn abutted a larger hill. Sheltered from the prevailing winds, it had grown vast, its bark thin and peeling as if it was skin unable to contain the muscular breadth underneath. Branches as thick around as Karsa’s thigh reached out from the massive, knotted trunk. Its top third was thickly leaved, forming broad, flattened canopies of dusty green.
‘Looks old, doesn’t it?’ Cynnigig said as they climbed towards it, the Jaghut walking with a hooked, sideways gait. ‘You have no idea how old, my young friend. No idea. I dare not reveal to you the truth of its antiquity. Have you seen its like before? I think not. Perhaps reminiscent of the guldindha, such as can be found here and there across the odhan. Reminiscent, as a ranag is reminiscent of a goat. More than simply a question of stature. No, it is in truth a question of antiquity. An Elder species, this tree. A sapling when an inland sea hissed salty sighs over this land. Tens of thousands of years, you wonder? No. Hundreds of thousands. Once, Karsa Orlong, these were the dominant trees across most of the world. All things know their time, and when that time is past, they vanish-’
‘But this one hasn’t.’
‘No sharper an observance could be made. And why, you ask?’
‘I do not bother, for I know you will tell me in any case.’
‘Of course I shall, for I am of a helpful sort, a natural proclivity. The reason, my young friend, shall soon be made evident.’
They clambered over the last of the rise and came to the flat ground, eternally shadowed beneath the canopy and so free of grasses. The tree and all its branches, Karsa now saw, were wrapped in spiders’ webs that somehow remained entirely translucent no matter how thickly woven, revealed only by a faint flickering reflection. And beneath that glittering shroud, the face of a Jaghut stared back at him.
‘Phyrlis,’ Cynnigig said, ‘this is the one Aramala spoke of, the one seeking a worthy horse.’
The Jaghut woman’s body remained visible here and there, revealing that the tree had indeed grown around her. Yet a single shaft of wood emerged from just behind her right collarbone, rejoining the main trunk along the side of her head.
‘Shall I tell him your story, Phyrlis? Of course, I must, if only for its remarkability.’
Her voice did not come from her mouth, but sounded, fluid and soft, inside Karsa’s head. ‘Of course you must, Cynnigig. It is your nature to leave no word unsaid.’
Karsa smiled, for there was too much affection in the tone to lend the words any edge.
‘My Thelomen Toblakai friend, a most extraordinary tale, for which true explanations remain beyond us all,’ Cynnigig began, settling down cross-legged on the stony ground. ‘Dear Phyrlis was a child-no, a babe, still suckling from her mother’s breast-when a band of T’lan Imass ran them down. The usual fate ensued. The mother was slain, and Phyrlis was dealt with also in the usual fashion-spitted on a spear, the spear anchored into the earth. None could have predicted what then followed, neither Jaghut nor T’lan Imass, for it was unprecedented. That spear, wrought of native wood, took what it could of Phyrlis’s life-spirit and so was reborn. Roots reached down to grip the bedrock, branches and leaves sprang anew, and in return the wood’s own life-spirit rewarded the child. Together, then, they grew, escaping their relative fates. Phyrlis renews the tree, the tree renews Phyrlis.’
Karsa set his sword’s point down and leaned on it. ‘Yet she was the maker of the Jhag horses.’
‘A small role, Karsa Orlong. From my blood came their longevity. The Jhag horses breed infrequently, insufficient to increase, or even maintain, their numbers, were they not so long-lived.’
‘I know, for the Teblor-my own people, who dwell in the mountains of north Genabackis-maintain herds of what must be Jhag horses.’
‘If so, then I am pleased. They are being hunted to extinction here on the Jhag Odhan.’
‘Hunted? By whom?’
‘By distant kin of yours, Thelomen Toblakai. Trell.’
Karsa was silent for a moment, then he scowled. ‘Such as the one known as Mappo?’
‘Yes indeed. Mappo Runt, who travels with Icarium. Icarium, who carries arrows made from my branches. Who, each time he visits me, remembers naught of the previous encounter. Who asks, again and again, for my heartwood, so that he may fashion from it a mechanism to measure time, for my heartwood alone can outlive all other constructs.’
‘And do you oblige him?’ Karsa asked.
‘No, for it would kill me. Instead, I bargain. A strong shaft for a bow. Branches for arrows.’
‘Have you no means to defend yourself, then?’
‘Against Icarium, no-one has, Karsa Orlong.’
The Teblor warrior grunted. ‘I had an argument with Icarium, which neither of us won.’ He tapped his stone sword. ‘My weapon was of wood, but now I wield this one. The next time we meet, even Mappo Trell’s treachery shall not save Icarium.’
Both Jaghut were silent for a long moment, and Karsa realized that Phyrlis was speaking to Cynnigig, for he saw his expression twist with alarm. Ochre eyes flicked momentarily up to the Teblor, then away again.
Finally, Cynnigig loosed a long sigh and said, ‘Karsa Orlong, she now calls upon the nearest herd-the lone herd she knows has come close to this area in answer to her first summons. She had hoped for more-evidence, perhaps, of how few Jhag horses remain.’
‘How many head in this herd?’
‘I cannot say, Karsa Orlong. They usually number no more than a dozen. Those that now approach are perhaps the last left in the Jhag Odhan.’
Karsa lifted his gaze suddenly as the noise of hoofs sounded, rumbling through the ground underfoot. ‘More than a dozen, I think,’ he murmured.
Cynnigig clambered upright, wincing with the effort. Movement in the valley below. Karsa swung around. The ground was shaking, the roar of thunder on all sides now. The tree behind him shook as if struck by a sudden gale. In his mind, the Teblor heard Phyrlis cry out.
The horses came in their hundreds. Grey as iron, larger even than those Karsa’s tribe had bred. Streaming, tossing manes of black. Stallions, flinging their heads back and bucking to clear a space around them. Broad-backed mares, foals racing at their flanks. Hundreds into thousands.
The air filled with dust, lifting on the wind and corkscrewing skyward as if to challenge the Whirlwind itself.
More of the wild horses topped the hill above them, and the thunder suddenly fell away as every beast halted, forming a vast iron ring facing inward. Silence, the dust cloud rolling, tumbling away on the wind.
Karsa faced the tree once more. ‘It seems you need not worry that they near extinction, Phyrlis. I have never seen so many foals and yearlings in a herd. Nor have I ever before seen a herd of this size. There must ten, fifteen thousand head-and we cannot even see all of them.’
Phyrlis seemed incapable of replying. The tree’s branches still shook, the branches rattling in the hot air.
‘You speak true, Karsa Orlong,’ Cynnigig rasped, his gaze eerily intent on the Thelomen Toblakai. ‘The herds have come together-and some have come far indeed in answer to the summons. But not that of Phyrlis. No, not in answer to her call. But in answer to yours, Karsa Orlong. And to this, we have no answer. But now, you must choose.’ Nodding, he turned to study the horses.
‘Karsa Orlong, you spoke earlier of a wooden weapon. What kind of wood?’
‘Ironwood, the only choice remaining to me. In my homeland, we use bloodwood.’
‘And blood-oil?’
‘Yes.’
‘Rubbed into the wood. Blood-oil, staining your hands. They can smell it, Karsa Orlong-’
‘But I have none.’
‘Not on you. In you. It courses in your veins, Karsa Orlong. Bloodwood has not existed in the Jhag Odhan for tens of thousands of years. Yet these horses remember. Now, you must choose.’
‘Bloodwood and blood-oil,’ Cynnigig said. ‘This is an insufficient explanation, Phyrlis.’
‘Yes, it is. But it is all I have.’
Karsa left them to their argument and, leaving his sword thrust upright in the ground, walked down to the waiting horses. Stallions tossed their heads at his approach and the Teblor smiled-careful not to show his teeth, knowing that they saw him as predator, and themselves as his prey. Though they could easily kill me. Among such numbers I would have no chance. He saw one stallion that was clearly dominant among all others, given the wide space around it and its stamping, challenging demeanour, and walked past it, murmuring, ‘Not you, proud one. The herd needs you more than I do.’ He spied another stallion, this one just entering adulthood, and made his way towards it. Slowly, approaching at an angle so that the horse could see him.
A mane and tail of white, not black. Long-limbed, muscles rippling beneath its sleek hide. Grey eyes.
Karsa halted a single pace away. He slowly reached out his right hand, until his fingertips settled on the beast’s trembling bridge. He began applying pressure. The stallion resisted, backing up a step. He pushed the head further down, testing the flexibility of the neck. Still further, the neck bowing, until the horse’s chin almost rested in the space between its breast bones.
Then he withdrew the pressure, maintaining contact as the stallion slowly straightened its neck.
‘I name you Havok,’ he whispered.
He moved his hand down until his fingertips rested, palm upward, beneath its chin, then slowly walked backward, leading the stallion out from the herd.
The dominant stallion screamed then, and the herd exploded into motion once more. Outward, dispersing into smaller groups, thundering through the high grasses. Wheeling around the twin hills, west and south, out once more into the heartland of the Jhag Odhan.
Havok’s trembling had vanished. The beast walked at Karsa’s pace as he backed up the hillside.
As he neared the summit, Cynnigig spoke behind him. ‘Not even a Jaghut could so calm a Jhag horse, Karsa Orlong, as you have done. Thelomen Toblakai, yes, you Teblor are that indeed, yet you are also unique among your kind. Thelomen Toblakai horse warriors. I had not thought such a thing possible. Karsa Orlong, why have the Teblor not conquered all of Genabackis?’
Karsa glanced back at the Jaghut. ‘One day, Cynnigig, we shall.’
‘And are you the one who will lead them?’
‘I am.’
‘We have witnessed, then, the birth of infamy.’
Karsa moved alongside Havok, his hand running the length of its taut neck. Witness? Yes, you are witness. Even so, what I, Karsa Orlong, shall shape, you cannot imagine.
No-one can.
Cynnigig sat in the shade of the tree that contained Phyrlis, humming sofly. It was approaching dusk. The Thelomen Toblakai was gone, with his chosen horse. He had vaulted onto its back and ridden off without need for saddle or even reins. The herds had vanished, leaving the vista as empty as it had been before.
The bent-backed Jaghut removed a wrapped piece of the aras deer cooked the night before and began cutting it into small slices. ‘A gift for you, dear sister.’
‘I see,’ she replied. ‘Slain by the stone sword?’
‘Aye.’
‘A bounty, then, to feed my spirit.’
Cynnigig nodded. He paused to gesture carelessly with the knife. ‘You’ve done well, disguising the remains.’
‘The foundations survive, of course. The House’s walls. The anchor-stones in the yard’s corners-all beneath my cloak of soil.’
‘Foolish, unmindful T’lan Imass, to drive a spear into the grounds of an Azath House.’
‘What did they know of houses, Cynnigig? Creatures of caves and hide tents. Besides, it was already dying and had been for years. Fatally wounded. Oh, Icarium was on his knees by the time he finally delivered the mortal blow, raving with madness. And had not his Toblakai companion taken that opportunity to strike him unconscious… ’
‘He would have freed his father.’ Cynnigig nodded around a mouthful of meat. He rose and walked to the tree. ‘Here, sister,’ he said, offering her a slice.
‘It’s burnt.’
‘I doubt you could have managed better.’
‘True. Go on, push it down-I won’t bite.’
‘You can’t bite, my dear. I do appreciate the irony, by the way-Icarium’s father had no desire to be saved. And so the House died, weakening the fabric…’
‘Sufficiently for the warren to be torn apart. More, please-you’re eating more of it than I am.’
‘Greedy bitch. So, Karsa Orlong… surprised us.’
‘I doubt we are the first victims of misapprehension regarding that young warrior, brother.’
‘Granted. Nor, I suspect, will we be the last to suffer such shock.’
‘Did you sense the six T’lan Imass spirits, Cynnigig? Hovering there, beyond the hidden walls of the yard?’
‘Oh yes. Servants of the Crippled God, now, the poor things. They would tell him something, I think-’
‘Tell who? The Crippled God?’
‘No. Karsa Orlong. They possess knowledge, with which they seek to guide the Thelomen Toblakai-but they dared not approach. The presence of the House, I suspect, had them fearful.’
‘No, it is dead-all that survived of its lifespirit moved into the spear. Not the House, brother, but Karsa Orlong himself-that was who they feared.’
‘Ah.’ Cynnigig smiled as he slipped another sliver of meat into Phyrlis’s wooden mouth, where it slid from view, falling down into the hollow cavity within. There to rot, to gift the tree with its nutrients. ‘Then those Imass are not so foolish after all.’